Chapter XIII: Part III: Poems of Nature (9)

Free the fettered engine, Speed the tireless shaft, Loose to'gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft!

Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead-- Every man to his duty, We have buried our dead!

Henry Howard Brownell [1820-1872]

TOM BOWLING

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, The word to "pipe all hands." Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

MESSMATES

Ha gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by.

He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles around; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by.

I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As they thrash to and fro, And the battleships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by.

Henry Newbolt [1862-

THE LAST BUCCANEER

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going--I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE LAST BUCCANEER

The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"

"From a shore no search hath found, from a gull no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde A loud crash and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore."

The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, Through the seas of the balmy Trades.

From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.

Thomas Babington Macaulay [1800-1859]

THE LEADSMAN'S SONG

For England, when with favoring gale, Our gallant ship up Channel steered, And scudding, under easy sail, The high blue western lands appeared, To heave the lead the seaman sprang, And to the pilot cheerly sang, "By the deep--Nine."

And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-known object kept in view, An abbey tower, a ruined fort, A beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, "By the mark--Seven."

And as the much-loved shore we near, With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, Of faith and love and matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, "Quarter less--Five."

Now to her berth the ship draws nigh, With slackened sail she feels the tide, Stand clear the cable is the cry, The anchor's gone, we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seaman with delight Proclaim--"All's well."

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]

HOMEWARD BOUND

Head the ship for England! Shake out every sail! Blithe leap the billows, Merry sings the gale. Captain, work the reckoning; How many knots a day?-- Round the world and home again, That's the sailor's way!

We've traded with the Yankees, Brazilians and Chinese; We've laughed with dusky beauties In shade of tall palm-trees; Across the line and Gulf-Stream-- Round by Table Bay-- Everywhere and home again, That's the sailor's way!

Nightly stands the North Star Higher on our bow; Straight we run for England; Our thoughts are in it now. Jolly times with friends ashore, When we've drawn our pay!-- All about and home again, That's the sailor's way!

Tom will to his parents, Jack will to his dear, Joe to wife and children, Bob to pipes and beer; Dicky to the dancing-room, To hear the fiddles play;-- Round the world and home again, That's the sailor's way!

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE SIMPLE LIFE

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats [1865-

A WISH

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]

ODE ON SOLITUDE

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day;

Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixed, sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

"THRICE HAPPY HE"

Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the soft sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! Or how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs perfumed which do the flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold! The world is full of horrors, falsehoods, slights; Woods' silent shades have only true delights.

William Drummond [1585-1649]

"UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE" From "As You Like It"

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

CORIDON'S SONG In "The Complete Angler"

Oh, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find. High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, That quiet contemplation Possesseth all my mind: Then care away, And wend along with me.

For courts are full of flattery, As hath too oft been tried; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, The city full of wantonness, And both are full of pride:

But oh, the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart:

Our clothing is good sheepskins, Gray russet for our wives, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives:

The plowman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holiday, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, No emperor so merrily Does pass his time away:

To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers:

The cuckoo and the nightingale Full merrily do sing, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring:

This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies: Then come away, turn Countryman with me.

John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]

THE OLD SQUIRE

I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; I like the joyous morning air, And the crowing of the cocks.

I like the calm of the early fields, The ducks asleep by the lake, The quiet hour which nature yields Before mankind is awake.

I like the pheasants and feeding things Of the unsuspicious morn; I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings As she rises from the corn.

I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush From the turnips as I pass by, And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride, When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse-heels trot In silence after me; There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, Old Slut and Margery,--

A score of names well used, and dear, The names my childhood knew; The horn with which I rouse their cheer, Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; The new world still is all less fair Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range Than these dear manors give; I take my pleasures without change, And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbors to their thought; My choice it is, and pride, On my own lands to find my sport, In my own fields to ride.

The hare herself no better loves The field where she was bred, Than I the habit of these groves, My own inherited.

I know my quarries every one, The meuse where she sits low; The road she chose to-day was run A hundred years ago.

The lags, the gills, the forest ways, The hedgerows one and all, These are the kingdoms of my chase, And bounded by my wall;

Nor has the world a better thing, Though one should search it round, Than thus to live one's own sole king, Upon one's own sole ground.

I like the hunting of the hare; It brings me, day by day, The memory of old days as fair, With dead men passed away.

To these, as homeward still I ply And pass the churchyard gate, Where all are laid as I must lie I stop and raise my hat.

I like the hunting of the hare; New sports I hold in scorn. I like to be as my fathers were, In the days ere I was born.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE

Beneath this stony roof reclined, I soothe to peace my pensive mind; And while, to shade my lowly cave, Embowering elms their umbrage wave; And while the maple dish is mine-- The beechen cup, unstained with wine-- I scorn the gay licentious crowd, Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits, lone and still, The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Fast by my couch, congenial guest, The wren has wove her mossy nest; From busy scenes and brighter skies, To lurk with innocence, she flies, Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my customed round, To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, And every opening primrose count, That trimly paints my blooming mount; Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, That grace my gloomy solitude, I teach in winding wreaths to stray Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portrayed with many a holy deed Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create, Who but would smile at guilty state? Who but would wish his holy lot In calm oblivion's humble grot? Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff, and amice gray; And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage?

Thomas Warton [1728-1790]

THE RETIREMENT

Farewell, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age outwears Upon the most conspicuous theaters, Where naught but vanity and vice appears.

Good God! how sweet are all things here! How beautiful the fields appear! How cleanly do we feed and lie! Lord! what good hours do we keep! How quietly we sleep! What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation!

O, how happy here's our leisure! O, how innocent our pleasure! O ye valleys! O ye mountains! O ye groves, and crystal fountains! How I love, at liberty, By turns to come and visit ye! Dear solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to attend, With thee I here converse at will, And would be glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.

How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read and meditate and write, By none offended, and offending none! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.

O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, Princess of rivers, how I love Upon thy flowery banks to lie, And view thy silver stream, When gilded by a Summer's beam! And in it all thy wanton fry Playing at liberty, And, with my angle, upon them The all of treachery I ever learned industriously to try!

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po; The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine; And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are With thine, much purer, to compare; The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine Are both too mean, Beloved Dove, with thee To vie priority; Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

O my beloved rocks, that rise To awe the earth and brave the skies! From some aspiring mountain's crown How dearly do I love, Giddy with pleasure to look down; And from the vales to view the noble heights above; O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat, And all anxieties, my safe retreat; What safety, privacy, what true delight, In the artificial light Your gloomy entrails make, Have I taken, do I take! How oft, when grief has made me fly, To hide me from society E'en of my dearest friends, have I, In your recesses' friendly shade, All my sorrows open laid, And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy!

Lord! would men let me alone, What an over-happy one Should I think myself to be-- Might I in this desert place, (Which most men in discourse disgrace) Live but undisturbed and free! Here, in this despised recess, Would I, maugre Winter's cold, And the Summer's worst excess, Try to live out to sixty full years old, And, all the while, Without an envious eye On any thriving under Fortune's smile, Contented live, and then contented die.

Charles Cotton [1630-1687]

THE COUNTRY FAITH

Here in the country's heart, Where the grass is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e'er hath been.

Trust in a God still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O'er the rising corn.

God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall-- This is the country faith And best of all!

Norman Gale [1862-

TRULY GREAT

My walls outside must have some flowers, My walls within must have some books; A house that's small; a garden large, And in it leafy nooks:

A little gold that's sure each week; That comes not from my living kind, But from a dead man in his grave, Who cannot change his mind:

A lovely wife, and gentle too; Contented that no eyes but mine Can see her many charms, nor voice To call her beauty fine:

Where she would in that stone cage live, A self made prisoner, with me; While many a wild bird sang around, On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them, In her far sweeter voice than all; Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large, This little gold, this lovely mate, With health in body, peace at heart-- Show me a man more great.

William H. Davies [1870-

EARLY MORNING AT BARGIS

Clear air and grassy lea, Stream-song and cattle-bell-- Dear man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!

To live our days apart From green things and wide skies, And let the wistful heart Be cut and crushed with lies!

Bright peaks!--And suddenly Light floods the placid dell, The grass-tops brush my knee: A good crop it will be, So all is well! O man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!

Hermann Hagedorn [1882-

THE CUP

The cup I sing is a cup of gold Many and many a century old, Sculptured fair, and over-filled With wine of a generous vintage, spilled In crystal currents and foaming tides All round its luminous, pictured sides. Old Time enameled and embossed This ancient cup at an infinite cost. Its frame he wrought of metal that run Red from the furnace of the sun. Ages on ages slowly rolled Before the glowing mass was cold, And still he toiled at the antique mold,-- Turning it fast in his fashioning hand, Tracing circle, layer, and band, Carving figures quaint and strange, Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, The symmetry of a plan divine. At last he poured the lustrous wine, Crowned high the radiant wave with light, And held aloft the goblet bright, Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist Of purple, amber, and amethyst.

This is the goblet from whose brink All creatures that have life must drink: Foemen and lovers, haughty lord, And sallow beggar with lips abhorred. The new-born infant, ere it gain The mother's breast, this wine must drain. The oak with its subtle juice is fed, The rose drinks till her cheeks are red, And the dimpled, dainty violet sips The limpid stream with loving lips. It holds the blood of sun and star, And all pure essences that are: No fruit so high on the heavenly vine, Whose golden hanging clusters shine On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, But some sweet influence it distils That slideth down the silvery rills. Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, The early gods their secrets brought; Beauty, in quivering lines of light, Ripples before the ravished sight: And the unseen mystic spheres combine To charm the cup and drug the wine.

All day I drink of the wine, and deep In its stainless waves my senses steep; All night my peaceful soul lies drowned In hollows of the cup profound; Again each morn I clamber up The emerald crater of the cup, On massive knobs of jasper stand And view the azure ring expand: I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:-- Edges of chrysolite emerge, Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, My eager senses kiss the wave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore That kindles the bosom's secret core, And the fire that maddens the poet's brain With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A STRIP OF BLUE

I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,-- The orchards and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me tithes divine,-- Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,-- A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,-- My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, The people of the sky,-- Guests in white raiment coming down From Heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh, So white, so light, so spirit-like, From violet mists they bloom! The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom, Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night; We miss the warm, caressing shore, Its brooding shade and light. A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told. The fringes of eternity,-- God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for, and hold.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones,-- Sapphire and amethyst, Washed from celestial basement walls By suns unsetting kissed. Out through the utmost gates of space, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before: Thy universe, O God, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad, when is opened unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD To Hasten Him Into The Country

Come, spur away! I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war-- 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day? With what delights Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none. Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate! I never mean to wed That torture to my bed: My Muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more! We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store. No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then, full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes; We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: Then I another pipe will take And Done music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]

"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN"

The midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa'; The paitricks doun the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell.-- Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

THE PLOW

Above yon somber swell of land Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-steam Of stalwart horses come to plow.

Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind Your labor is for future hours! Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- Plow deep and straight with all your powers.

Richard Hengist Horne [1803-1884]

THE USEFUL PLOW

A country life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plow.

They rise with the morning lark, And labor till almost dark, Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the, useful plow.

Unknown

"TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT"

To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,--and eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by, E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

John Keats [1795-1821]

THE QUIET LIFE

What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning?

Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait On favorite, presumptuous, Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His ship unto the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth! Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.

William Byrd [1538?-1623]

THE WISH

Well then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city!

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since Love ne'er will from me flee,-- A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved, and loving me!

O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood! Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie, that she Has coined and stamped for good.

Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And naught but echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.

Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

"Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake And thus I made reply:

"The eye--it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.

"Nor less I dream that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away."

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE TABLES TURNED An Evening Scene On The Same Subject

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening luster mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

SIMPLE NATURE

Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower From any garden of the rich and great, Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, Some novel form of wonder to create. Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, And gather simple cups of morning dew, Or, in the fields and meadows that I love, Find beauty in their bells of every hue. Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air, And though the rustic plot be humbly laid, Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there, I have not toiled, but take what God has made. My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in scorn; I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn.

George John Romanes [1848-1894]

"I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS"

I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields, With comradeship alone of gun, Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun.

For aye the heart's most poignant pain Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, And rush of winds through branches bare With something still to do and dare,--

The lonely watch beside the shore, The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, The paths of virgin sky to scan Untrod, and so uncursed by man.

Gramercy, for thy haunting face, Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields.

Ernest McGaffey [1861-

A RUNNABLE STAG

When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom And apples began to be golden-skinned, We harbored a stag in the Priory coomb, And we feathered his trail up-wind, up-wind, We feathered his trail up-wind-- A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag.

Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, And "Forwards" we heard the harborer shout; But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap In the beechen underwood, driven out, From the underwood antlered out By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, The runnable stag, whose lordly mind Was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined He stood, a runnable stag.

So we tufted the covert till afternoon With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell-of-the-North; And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune Before we tufted the right stag forth, Before we tufted him forth, The stag of warrant, the wily stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The royal and runnable stag.

It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. "Tally ho! tally ho!" and the hunt was up, The tufters whipped and the pack laid on, The resolute pack laid on, And the stag of warrant away at last, The runnable stag, the same, the same, His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, A stag, a runnable stag.

"Let your gelding be: if you check or chide He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt; For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, On hunters accustomed to bear the brunt, Accustomed to bear the brunt, Are after the runnable stag, the stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The right, the runnable stag."

By perilous paths in coomb and dell, The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, And a runnable stag goes right ahead, The quarry went right ahead-- Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; His antlered crest, his cloven hoof, Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, The stag, the runnable stag.

For a matter of twenty miles and more, By the densest hedge and the highest wall, Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore Of harborer, huntsman, hounds and all, Of harborer, hounds and all-- The stag of warrant, the wily stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, He ran, and he never was caught alive, This stag, this runnable stag.

When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom, In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep, He heard in the distance the rollers boom, And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep, In a wonderful vision of sleep, A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag in a jewelled bed, Under the sheltering ocean dead, A stag, a runnable stag.

So a fateful hope lit up his eye, And he opened his nostrils wide again, And he tossed his branching antlers high As he headed the hunt down the Charloch glen, As he raced down the echoing glen-- For five miles more, the stag, the stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, Not to be caught now, dead or alive, The stag, the runnable stag.

Three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, Three hundred horses as gallant and free, Beheld him escape on the evening tide, Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, Till he sank in the depths of the sea-- The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag That slept at last in a jewelled bed Under the sheltering ocean spread, The stag, the runnable stag.

John Davidson [1857-1909]

HUNTING-SONG From "King Arthur"

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara! With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara! And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara! He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara! For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

"A-HUNTING WE WILL GO" From "Don Quixote in England"

The dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a-hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay; "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a-hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a-hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a-hunting we will go.

Fond Echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills, the sound retort, And music fills the sky, When a-hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a-drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace, When a-hunting we do go.

Henry Fielding [1707-1754]

THE ANGLER'S INVITATION

Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, Come when the bee hums over the lea, Come with the wild flowers-- Come with the wild showers-- Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!

Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, Where the gray trout glide silently by, Or in some still place Over the hill face Hurrying onward, drop the light fly.

Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed To our own loved walls down on the mead, There, by the bright hearth, Holding our night mirth, We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.

Thomas Tod Stoddart [1810-1880]

THE ANGLER'S WISH From "The Complete Angler"

I in these flowery mends would be, These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers; Here, hear my Kenna sing a song: There, see a blackbird feed her young,

Or a laverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love: Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;

Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good morning to next day; There meditate my time away; And angle on; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

Izaak Walton [1593-1683]

THE ANGLER In "The Complete Angler"

O the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure.

In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping; Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping; Then we go To and fro, With our knacks At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Where, in a brook, With a hook,-- Or a lake,-- Fish we take; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle.

We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away; We sit still, Watch our quill: Fishers must not wrangle.

If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging; We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented.

John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]

WANDERLUST

TO JANE: THE INVITATION

Best and Brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair day, Which, like thee, to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon morn To hoar February born; Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs-- To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.

I leave this notice on my door For each accustomed visitor:-- "I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields;-- Reflection, you may come to-morrow, Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.-- You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- I will pay you in the grave,-- Death will listen to your stave. Expectation too, be off! To-day is for itself enough; Hope, in pity mock not Woe With smiles, nor follow where I go; Long having lived on thy sweet food, At length I find one moment's good Alter long pain--with all your love, This you never told me of."

Radiant Sister of the Day Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round sterns that never kiss the sun. Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sandhills of the sea;-- Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers, and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

"MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS"

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,-- My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"AFAR IN THE DESERT"

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead: Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon; Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; Companions of early days lost or left-- And my native land--whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; All--all now forsaken--forgotten--foregone! And I--a lone exile remembered of none-- My high aims abandoned,--my good acts undone-- Aweary of all that is under the sun-- With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife-- The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear-- The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear-- And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh-- Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand-- The only law of the Desert Land!